A Witch in MiddleEarth
by Virodeil
Summary: Adopted from Christy Daae. Ron is dead and Hermione decides to change it, using the Time Turner. But she finds herself in a world she thought never existed. Will she find happiness there? Or will she find herself involved in another war instead?
1. Prologue

Author's Notes:

As the summary indicated, I adopted this story from Christy Daae, my co-author of the original A Witch in Middle-Earth. She offered me to continue her work, since she could not do it herself. Well, I am not a good updater as well… but I will try my best.

The plotline and most events will be the same as hers, no worries. I will just tidy things up a bit along the way until I reach the end of her current work. From now on I will use UK English, though, because I am most comfortable with it, so please bear with me. The story will also be dominated by the book version, because I only know snippets of the film one, having seldom 'watched' it myself and being a blind – thus not knowing the details. I hope you do not mind it also.

The timeline of this particular chapter is just after the Deathly Hallows, when the remaining Order of the Phoenix were routing out the last of the Death Eaters. (The original author said so herself, when I confirmed it to her.) Ron, Harry and Hermione as well as the surviving students of Hogwarts from the Last Battle were involved. I have seen to some adjustments to the chapter accordingly.

So, enjoy!

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Prologue

The noise is deafening as a jet of green-coloured magic wizzes past my head, missing it only by mere inches. I mutter a curse to fling at the general direction of the lethal beam, then quickly throw myself over a headstone to hide behind it.

"Bloody hell – Hermione, Be careful!" a familiar voice whispers aloud over the sounds of things blasted by stray spells and words for the spells themselves. I yeep and turn to my side just in time to receive Ron's full glare.

The headstone we are hiding behind suddenly explodes. I yank Ron out of the way as Death Eaters swarm closer. We run away over the uneven ground of the semetry of Little Hangleton, trying to find a safe place to launch our own attacks from.

But I suddenly topple over, tripping a chunk of debris. Ron comes down with me, since we still link hands. Our faces turn a shade of red not unlike Ron's hair as we realise how we have fallen. As it is, we are both in a compromising position, with Ron lying heavily on top of me. We stare at each other for a moment, forgetting the battle going on around us and the Death Eaters pursuing us.

"Hey you two, go on!" Harry shouts from behind another headstone a few feet away, dazzling the eyes of the approaching Death Eaters with a jet of amplified white sparks from his wand. His frantic shout shakes us from our stupor. Ron quickly jumps to his feet and offers a hand to help me up, just as the remnant of the Order of the Phoenix run past us to confront the Death Eaters.

"Look out!" I hear Harry shout a moment before I am blinded by a flash of green light. My sight returns quickly, but I find myself wishing it had not.

The warning has come too late.

I watch in horror as Ron's eyes widen in surprise, a gasp escaping his lips.

As if in slow motion, he mouths my name, then collapses to his knees and falls backwards, dead before he hits the ground. I just stand there, paralysed with shock. Then, when the situation sinks in my mind, a blood-curdling scream I have hardly thought I could produce tears wildly from my lips. I kneel next to Ron's lifeless body and take it in my arms. I no longer care about the battle, or if I an now an easy target for the Death Eaters to shoot at.

It is unbelieveable that Ron is dead. He had always been there for me and Harry. And despite his behaviour oftentimes, he had captured my heart – since a long time ago.

Anger wells up inside me, accompanied by hatred to the Death Eater that has killed my boyfriend. I stand up and race forward to meet the fight head on.

"Hermione – Wait!" Harry pleads, grabbing me by the shoulders. His voice is dead, hollow, and I jerk to a stop – briefly. I have forgotten how he had tried to warn us, and how it did not save Ron. What must he be thinking now? Is he wishing the same thing as I am, that he could join Ron soon in death?

But, on the thought of Ron's death, my earlier determination returns, and I dislodge his hands from my shoulders.

"Harry, one of them killed Ron! KILLED him!" I hiss, then continue to run before he could stop me again. The Death Eaters are going to pay even if it is the last thing I do in my life.

"Hermione – Come back!" I hear someone yell. "It's too dangerous!" I do not care. I launch myself at the first Death Eater I meet like a wild cat, forgetting my wand in the haze of vengeance clouding my mind. I grab the person by the sleeve of his black robe and we topple to the ground, clawing and punching each other. We lose our wands as we fight. The Death Eater practically growls as he struggles to free himself from my grasp, probably ashamed of being bested by a girl in a physical fight.

We both notice his wand nearby, nearly at the same time, and a vicious scrabble to get to it first ensues. The fighting around us intensifies as ours did.

In the end, I manage to throw the man off of me, using all my might, and grab his wand. He lunges at me as I rise to my feet, the wand pointed at its owner.

There is enough hatred and malice in me towards him to fuel what I am about to do. I do not hesitate.

"Avada Kedavra!" I shout. His body crumbles to the ground… like Ron's did. I laugh histerically, although in a weakened voice. One down. More to go, preferably also in the same way Ron has died.


	2. This Strange World

Author's Notes:

I am sorry for the late update! I am juggling several stories, so I have to prioritise things. Thank you for maying38 and Sharnorasian Empire for reviewing and others who put this adopted story into their favourite and story alert lists!

I splitted the end of Chapter 1 and put it in Chapter 2. I changed some things as well, but the original plotline and events are still visible. I might do it for other chapters, when they require it.

Hope you will like it!

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Chapter 1

This Strange World

A knock on the door draws me from my memories, both the sweet and the bitter. It has been three days since Ron's death, and I have become an apathetic lump, complete with my black mourning attire, sitting on the window seat of an unoccupied room (which now I claim as mine) in Twelve Grimmauld Place, watching the dreary houses outside the grubby glass of the window. The room is shadowed and heavily-decorated with tapestries. It is a surprising comfort to me.

Harry and Ginny, hand in hand, enter the room silently and seat themselves at my either side.

"Hermione, are you coming to dinner?" Harry asks softly in greeting, after a span of uncomfortable silence.

"I'm not hungry," I murmur, refusing to take my eyes away from the rain clouds in the patch of sky visible from the window.

"You have to eat something, Hermione," Ginny urges. "You're wasting away!"

"Good. I get to see Ron soon, then," I snap, but then start to cry. "I never got the chance to say good bye. Ron's dead and it's entirely my fault." And it is not fair to take all the anger and bitterness on them, my best friends, who had also been Ron's… I cannot control myself! I have lost control of it, actually, since three days ago in the graveyard of Little Hangleton, when I went in a killing rampage using the curse that had taken Ron. If only my best friends had not been there—

"You are not the only one who's lost someone, Hermione! Get over yourself!" Ginny hisses, exploding at last. "In case you haven't noticed, I lost a brother that day, and I've lost another brother in the Last Battle too. Imagine what that is like." And, with tears running down her cheeks, she storms out of the room.

A tense silence follows, stifling the air.

"Hermione, we have to move on. That was what I had to learn when I lost Sirius. Everyone has taken this hard. That's why we have to pull ourselves together and help each other up," Harry finally states, his voice soft and slightly hoarse, and his hand on mine gentle.

"I miss him so much. I never told him that…" I choke out through my tears.

"… You loved him," Harry finishes my sentence and, smiling sadly, pulls me into a comforting hug. I sob into his worn T-shirt as he gently strokes my hair. While I snuggle there in his arms, a strange determination comes over me as a plan knits itself together, becoming less vague by the moment.

"I have to set things right," I whisper while pulling away from him. I stride towards my desk, murmur a password under my breath, then rummage in the top drawer that has just been unlocked. My heart beats more rapidly when my blind hand stumbles on a small hour glass attached to a long golden chain. No, I must do this, for Ron.

Once I straighten up and grip my wand firmly in my hand, I notice Harry's green eyes staring at me in puzzlement. Then they drift to the Time Turner dangling over my chest, and widen with horror.

"Hermione – No. I don't think that's a good idea," he blurts, scared, while lunging at me, trying to prevent me from doing anything with the artefac. I do not pay attention to him as I dodge, my free hand clutching at the small hour glass as if a lifeline – and perhaps it is. He reaches out his hand to confiscate the item, but I quickly dash out the door, down the hall, and into another room, locking the door behind me. I can hear his muffled shouts through the door plank as he pounds his fists on it, demanding entrance.

"Hermione, Don't do this! Please!" I hear him call out frantically, pleadingly.

"Hermione dear, don't go through with this, please! You know strange consequences happen when you meddle with time!" Mrs. Weasley's voice urges, piping in when Harry's voice has broken into desperate sobs.

"I have to try!" I yell back, ignoring the knife twisting in my heart on hearing Harry's broken cry. I turn the hour glass to three days past at the same time.

When I let go, the rings of the Time Turner begin to spin; slowly at first, but then faster and faster. The room starts to blur.

Then suddenly everything seems to shift, no longer feeling right. I feel something grab me around the waist, and I am yanked up into the air. As I fly up into whirling space, the Time Turner shatters in my hand. My body is tossed about like a rag doll, before I am abruptly thrown onto the ground. The force of impact knocks the air out of my lungs.

I lie where I have fallen, face down, for a moment, taking in the smell of damp soil and the feeling of grass against my skin and clothes. Once my heart has stopped pounding and my breathing returns to normal, I push myself up to a kneeling position and look around.

I am surrounded by trees, apparently a small forest of sorts, and I have fallen on the centre of a small grassy clearing, with the autumn air permiating it.

"What the…" I murmur dazedly as I rise slowly to my feet. "Where am I?" It is certainly not the graveyard where we ambushed the Death Eaters three days ago, where Ron died. It does not feel like anywhere I have ever been also, because the air is too clean and the foliage too green and fragrant.

And there is a feel of… something… in everything around me, as if this place were young and saturated with magic. That both thrills and scared me. It does not feel like the earth I know.

With nothing better to do, I raise my wand, which was clutched painfully in my hand during the unexpected turmoil, and let it lie balanced on my palm. "Point me," I murmur, hoping that my magic will not tamper with the ambient power I am – strangely – able to feel.

I restrain myself from squeaking and dropping my wand when it springs to life for a moment and spins. It points to my left, before going dormant again on my palm. My heart beats rapidly.

That is north, then.

With a shaky smile, I turn and begin to walk, praying that civilisation is nearby. But that does not mean I am not engulfed in how beautiful and pristine everything is around me. I even enjoy weaving among tree trunks, leaping over roots, and dodging tree branches. I feel like a child again, going camping with Mum and Dad for the first time in the forest of Dean.

And for a moment, I forget everything I have been experiencing these three days.

I crest a hill for the umphteenth time, but this hilltop is bare, so I can see far to the distance to any direction. Forest upon rolling hills, like the one I have been traversing, dots the vast green land, and becomes a dark clumping line on the far east. But nearer to where I stand, a group of little smoke tendrils float up into the clear, clean autumn sky, although I cannot see where they come from. (If I did not know any better, I would have said that those plumes of smoke come from the hills themselves!) Regardless, I take it as a sign of civilisation, and begin to make my way cautiously there, hoping beyond hope that I will meet hospitality instead of hostility.

I halte before… who seems like a child… with a small, round face framed by light-brown curls. He stares up at me with surprise and curiosity in his bright blue eyes. He looks no taller than Harry when we firstly met in our first year, with oversized feet and furry soles that seem both odd and unique to me.

He seems to have been reading under the apple tree by the small path where I found him. The neglected tome in his hands falls to the ground by his side with a heavy thud, as his interest hones in on me. I feel guilty for disturbing him, as I do not like people disturbing my reading at inopportune moments either.

"Erh… Hello," I greet him self-consciously.

The child (Or is he a young man? Come to think of it again, his eyes look… older.) replies pleasantly, but I do not know in what language he talks. Probably the words are a version of "How do you do?"

Oh crap. How can I communicate my need if I do not even understand his language?

And I have never heard such language either in all my extensive learning in my whole life.

Apparently, he realises my predicament, for he smiles encouragingly and points a finger at himself. "Frodo Baggins," he says, with a meaningful stare. I nod, hugely relieved. Body language! Ah, such a blessing…

I mimic him, with a – faltering – smile of my own, and say, "Hermione Granger."

He giggles, perhaps finding my name to be funny. But since I detect no malice in him, I giggle with him. I sit beside him and point at the book, while throwing him a questioning glance. Nodding, he picks up the tome and gives it to me. Inwardly, I hop around with glee. This man-child is so smart!

But my delight deflates just as quickly.

I do not recognise the runes etched on the sheets of paper. My heart plummets down to the bottom of my belly. They are not what I have learnt at Hogwarts, nore the types I have studied myself in my spare time. That brings again the question I have briefly forsaken: Where am I?

A light touch on my trembling hand. A soft, soothing string of words. I look up and meet the man-child's concerned, compassionate gaze. I shake my head. Trying to convince him further that I am all right, I arch a small smile. But it seems that he does not buy my pretence, for his eyebrows rise to his hairline. He looks wiser and more mature in this way, and my respect towards him grows.

Then, suddenly, the sound of a soft singing and the clattering of a horse-drawn wagon reaches our ears.

A smile creeps across Frodo's cherubic face, and now he looks just like a child getting his awaited birthday present. He Stands up, beckons me to follow him with a cheery wave, and takes off running in the direction of the newcomer. I try to keep up to my best ability, the book having been jammed into the first pocket I find in my Wizarding robe. It is not easy, since his action had startled me into a motionless state until seconds later. He shoots out and runs down the criss-crossing paths like a pixie! I have to keep my eyes on his blue waistcoat to keep track of where he is going.

But my effort pays off, at least, in the end. And, in hindsight, I am thankful that I met this lovely fellow just in my entrance to this world – wherever this is.


	3. Bag End

Author's Notes:

*cringe* Sorry, people! I seemed to have neglected this story for quite a long time… Sorry – sorry. Well, now this is the second chapter… I hope you will enjoy it. And thank you for Mwhahahaha18, Sharnorasian Empire, Celebwen Telcontar, Allen Pitt, creative-writing-girl13, Griggling, Annabelle, and Mel (Wow! Chapter-by-chapter reviews! Thanks!) for the reviews!

I changed the tense to present tense for all chapters existing so far in the story because I could not write this current chapter well using past tense; it was so awkward. I am sorry. I hope you do not mind reading it in present tense. (I know some object to using/reading in it… but… *hands up*)

That said, enjoy!

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Chapter 2

Bag End

Frodo stands on the edge of a much-larger path with his arms crossed and his face stern. (A strange expression on his childlike countenance, I would say.) He is staring at a Wagon loaded with bundles etched with runes, which is slowly bumbling down… is this a road? I do not know. Everything in this country seems all strange to me. But anyway, I crouch behind him in the bushes, peering at the old man in dull grey robe and tall blue hat – wizard's hat – driving the wagon. That old man reminds me much of the deceased Professor Dumbledore. Creepy.

And then his piercing blue eyes – so much like Dumbledore! – are on me, and I recoil and look down. How has he discovered me? I had put up a notice-me-not charm on myself when Frodo skidded to a stop by the road…

Oblivious to my predicament, Frodo exchanges some words with the old man, ending with a joyous note. Then he climbs into the wagon, and the old man transvers his attention to me again. I gulp and crouch even lower, shrinking into myself. I can sense power within him, curtailed but still there. And even with all those restraints, he is still much more powerful than I am. I hope he is not considering me as a spy…

Come to think of it again, is this country, this world, in a war? I have been too used to thinking about war and all that come with it. Is there a chance that I have been dumped into a peaceful place, like the carefreeness Frodo has been showing suggests?

I have no more time to fret, then, because the old man beckons at me and says something in the language Frodo and he have been speaking in. Is he ordering me to climb into the wagon? Oh well, he is glaring now, so I do not really have a time to consider it. I cannot refuse either, for fear of making him angry. For all the similar look he shares with Dumbledore, my former headmaster was much more patient with everyone!

Grumpy and apprehensive, I climb into the seat which has just been vacated by Frodo. (The man-child now sits on the old man's lap, looking quite young and cute.) The quaint vehicle resumes its way along the road, jostling me between the old man and the side pole supporting the canopy above us. My face reddens with embarrassment. I was not like this in my rides from the Hogwarts Express to the castle itself – and vice versa. It is as if I were boneless! Have this unexpected trip to wherever this is – and perhaps through time also – weakened me so much? But I do not feel any obvious sign of exhaustion…

My eyes flicker to the old man, conveying my apology for continuously jostling him, before they look back to the lone horse dragging the wagon before us. I do not know what his reaction is to it, and I do not want to know. The movement of the wagon nauseates me. (Perhaps this is how one would feel when one's ship wis trapped in a tempest?) I try to focus my attention to the surroundings; but my effort meets with little success.

In that way, though, I see that Frodo's height is the common norm for people here. I see who looks like an elderly man who is only slightly taller than he! And there are doors – are they? – and chimnies dotting the low, rolling hills, the source of the smoke tendrils I saw from afar. The little children are even cuter than Frodo is currently, and they are swarming the wagon, racing after it with joyful laughter and shouts. I hear the name – is it? – "Gandalf" in all their merry, high-pitched voices. They point at the old man beside me, and at me as well, their eyes curious and warm and kind. After the devestation of my homeland, this is a eutopia… even though my general misery prevents me from immersing myself into it.

Thankfully the wooden monstrocity stops at last, on the crest of a gently-sloping hill taller than most others. Before us, seemingly carved into the hill itself, stands a round green door which is just a little taller than my head. But is it really a door? Why would one put a door there? Is it a trapdoor leading to a room underground? But it is perpendicular to the ground and I have seen many like it on our way here…

My eyes widen, and I squeeze my hands together in nervousness and mounting apprehention. Frodo touches my right forearm. I jerk his hand away in surprise. In consequence, I stammer out a profuce apology… What a tangle! I hope I can be free from this awkward mess soon, but hold little of it in my heart.

The old man knocks at the door plank with the head of his staff, and a harried voice answers from behind it with an annoyed exclamation. Frodo giggles, and I smile, a little incredulous – because I thought that this little folk are incapable of exasperation and annoyance, unlike my folk. The old man says something in his gravelly voice, his eyes twinkling, and the door bursts open. A middle-aged man, looking youthful despite everything, squeaks and – I assume – welcomes him joyously. Frodo introduces me to the person, but I only know because he takes my hand and points at me while saying, "Her-my-oh-nee," with careful precision. I smile both at his effort and as a greeting to who seems like our soon-to-be host.

I am right. He welcomes us in. The old man – Gandalf? – has to duck a bit to avoid the lintel. And all the while, Frodo chatters on to our host. He talks about me, I think, because he keeps waving at me as if to indicate me or to prove a point, and his eyes often stray to me.

I have neither cloak nor hat to hang, so I follow our host and Frodo past the row of pegs by the door through the surprisingly-tidy tunnel to what looks like a living room, with its furniture the size of the little folk. Well, at least I am met here by hospitality…

Frodo and the old man take their seats after me, but our host stands before me and, with a charming wide smile typical of these little folk, says in a clear voice, "Bilbo Baggins." Ah. So Frodo is his relative, after all? I beam at him and Frodo, a knowing spark in my eyes. I introduce myself like I did to Frodo by the small path in the woods, then point at him and Frodo – back and forth – with a questioning look at him. He nods and smiles even wider. He says something while pointing at him, then says another word and points at Frodo. He repeats it several times, and at last I manages to repeat both words and point respectively at the two of them. They clap their hands, even the old man. The meaning of the words are not easy to guess; it can be either "father" and "son", or "uncle" and "nephew"; but since they do not look alike, I pick up the latter pair.

Then I turn to the old man, and reintroduce myself, with the correct hand gesture, before pointing my hand to him with a questioning look. He grins at me through his beard and says, "Gandalf," followed by another word which I assume is his title or sirname, in their tongue. I nod and repeat his name while pointing at him, while mirroring his grin. This promises to be so much fun! I love learning languages and their sets of alphabets, and my previous language teachers always commended me on my memorising and deducing achievement. I have never really proven it to myself to a satisfactory level before this. I just wish I had parchment and ink and quill to note down all the words I have gained so far, and to write a diary…

Hmm. Perhaps a bit later? These people are so bright and can understand my gestures quite well so far. It will be a rather easy chore to beg for some paper and writing tool once I am settled. Well, that is, if I will not be kicked out from here for some reason, politely or not, before long—

Someone taps my knee. I start. Our host stares at me apologetically. I smile, trying to reassure him. He was the one disturbing my excited thinking.

He recovers quickly and gestures expansively at the room, as if trying to embrace his whole – odd but pleasing – house. "Bag End," he says as if it is a name, beams at me, points at me, and nods sincerely, a warm, meaningful look in his whole countenance. I stare dumbly at him for a moment, before my face brakes into a grin that threatens to split my face. Tears of deep gratitude sting and blur my eyes. I clasp his hands in mine and lean forward, bringing them over my heart. It is the the deepest sign of gratitude and relief that I know.


End file.
